


The Canadian Border Region of America

by anubis_k



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Crime, Friendship, Other, Prequel, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 06:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17259251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anubis_k/pseuds/anubis_k
Summary: I already posted this in September, but my edits weren't posting, and I've re-written my chapters. So I had no choice to but to start again.This is set in 1988, when they're 20. I know there's some debate over Michael's D.O.B, so I've chosen to go with Trevor saying Michael was 45 in 2013, making him born in 1968.The first chapter is based on dialogue from the Pack Man mission. Later chapters may get psychologically dark. I'll change the fic warnings as appropriate!





	1. Canadian Border

**1988, North Yankton, an airstrip near the Canadian Border.**

Trevor kicked dust on the lonely airstrip, as he leaned against his Beagle plane, irritated at being kept waiting.  He was bored with the night’s near-silence, save for the tick of the cooling engine. He became more frustrated with every minute that passed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed the sandpaper stubble of his dimpled chin, exhaled sharply and kicked the side of his plane. ‘This fucker better turn up,’ he growled under his breath. He got to the point of wanting to say “fuck it” and fly away, but he desperately needed the money. He finally heard a distant car engine accompanied by headlight beams and he narrowed his eyes, trying to see if it was his contact; the young man who was delivering his cargo. Sure enough, there was a young man inside the car. The man slowed down and trundled up alongside the hangar where Trevor and his plane stood. No sooner had he applied the handbrake and got out, another car sped up the track behind him, kicking up dust as it came. An old man practically rolled out of the door, staggered and lunged towards the younger man, shouting incoherently and shaking his fist. The young man took on a defensive stance, ready for a fight. In the headlights, Trevor could see he was about his own age, twenty. He stepped forwards. ‘What’s goin’ on? Is there a problem here?’ He tried to act wide-eyed and innocent, in case this was a plain-clothed cop. ‘Come on, I’m sure we can sort all this out like gentlemen!’ he yelled.

‘You fucking bastard!’ yelled the old man as he reached for what Trevor assumed was a pistol in his waistband. In a hair-trigger response, Trevor grabbed a flare gun from his cockpit, rushed at him and fired it point blank into his eye socket. The man let out a blood-curdling shriek, fell to the ground and appeared to convulse himself to death. The younger man didn’t react with shock. He was calm and simply breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I was confused right there.’ He even smiled slightly, thin lips turning up at the corners.

‘Who the fuck was that?’ Trevor asked, still pumped full of adrenaline, looking at this guy intensely to see if he could get the measure of him.

‘I’ve no clue. Probably the guy I jacked the weapons off,’ the young man said as he looked at the corpse. The flare was still sizzling and burning inside his eye socket. ‘Will that ever fucking go out? What the fuck? Now what do we do?’

‘We gotta hide this. He might have other people looking out for him.’ 

‘It’s still burning! Got any water? We gotta wait until this goes out.’

‘Nah we gotta move it now!’  Trevor shouted.

They silently grabbed the body. Trevor had him under the arms, being careful not to let his burning, flopping head touch him. The other guy grabbed his legs and they heaved him up into the cargo hold as the flare still sizzled in his eye socket, creating a sickening meaty stench. Trevor paused after dropping the body. ‘Wait. You got the cargo?’

‘Shit, yeah,’ said the man – the commotion and the sizzling flare jammed in the old man’s skull had made him forget why he was there. He walked over to the trunk of his car, retrieved the cases, then handed them to Trevor who examined them to make sure this guy was legit. Pistols and marijuana present and accounted for. When satisfied, he strapped them into the hold so they wouldn’t fall out when they dropped the body. He clambered into the cockpit and motioned for his companion to get in. The man hesitated and stepped back as if to return to his car. Trevor glared at him.

‘Get  _in_!’ he yelled. 

‘What? I gave you what I came here for.’

Trevor continued to glare at him, angry now and the younger guy nodded, knowing he was going to have to help get rid of the body. They were accomplices now. He climbed in next to him and Trevor taxied into position before he sped up and took off down the short runway. The smell of burning flesh permeated through the cargo hold into the cockpit: fatty, porky and acrid. Trevor had cooked animals over fires before, but this smell was something else. He’d always thought rotting human flesh seemed particularly pungent. He didn’t know where he was taking the corpse, but he needed to dispose of it quickly, perhaps over a forest or a lake. Anywhere it could rot in peace or be eaten by wildlife. He flew roughly in the direction of the nearest airstrip, hoping he’d see something inspiring on his way and sure enough, he saw the blackness of a large lake ahead. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it straight away – he’d passed it enough times. As they got closer, he dipped low, causing his companion to flinch and clutch the side of his seat and the frame of the door. Trevor pointed at the the switch that opened the cargo hold. He looked at Michael, caught his eye. 'When we're over the lake, pull this lever.' Michael nodded. As they reached the centre of the lake, Michael pulled on the lever as Trevor sharply banked the plane to turn around so they could watch the body as it plopped into the blackness, the trail of the flare still burning bright from its gruesome fleshy wound as Trevor pulled the throttle and climbed. Michael held so tightly onto the edge of his seat, his knuckles were pushing at his skin, white.

The plane stank, the smell wouldn’t go. He needed to get down as soon as possible – he headed to the airstrip and slowly brought the plane in to land. They both got out and looked at each other. ‘So you wanna grab something to eat?’ Trevor asked. The man looked at him like he was insane. ‘ _What?! Think_ , man! We gotta clean out the cargo hold first. Can’t leave evidence, can’t leave blood.’

Trevor thought that seemed reasonable, but he wasn’t in a rush. No one looked inside his plane anyway. Nonetheless, he opened the compartment. There was blood, melted fat, chunks of burnt flesh, and curls of peeled skin. The fat smell in particular seemed to burst out at them and they both gagged and vomited on the dusty cracked runway. Trevor knew what to do – this hangar had a cupboard full of cleaning supplies and a tap. He filled two buckets with water and disinfectant, poured some on the ground to wash away their puke, then the two men set about scrubbing the cargo hold together. When they were done, Trevor slammed the hold shut, locked it and turned to look at his companion who gave a thin, awkward smile.  Trevor snorted and wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. He could still taste puke. He cackled. ‘That was quite a fucking baptism. My name’s Trevor by the way. Trevor Philips. Seeing as we just disposed of a body and I saved your ass, I thought I’d better introduce myself.’

‘Okay…I’m Michael. Michael Townley.’

‘ _Mikey_ …’ Trevor christened him, and Michael didn’t correct him.

‘How did you not see that guy following you?’

‘I was too busy looking out for you! I had the radio on loud; I didn’t hear.’ He shrugged and his blasé attitude caused to Trevor roll his eyes. ‘I think he was gonna shoot me and there wasn’t time to load one of the guns. Good thing you reacted so quick. I’m impressed.’

Trevor was silently flattered. He too was impressed – at the way Michael was so collected; nerves of steel. He liked the look of this dude. He was slick looking, handsome, floppy-haired with an air of confidence bordering on cocky and he distinctly smelled of aftershave. But he could tell he was hard, this was no false swagger. He'd noticed his steely blue eyes and thin-lipped resolve as he’d dropped that body into the lake. He seemed like a guy who could switch his emotions off when required – if he had any at all. They stood there quietly for a moment, before Michael realised he’d left his car back the other side of the border. ‘Fuck. Would you mind taking me back?’

‘Oh sure. Uh, I’m kinda hungry after emptying my guts over there. Let’s go get breakfast.’

‘It’s 3am, but whatever.’

‘There’s an all-night trucker café near here.’

‘I owe you one for what you did. I’ll pay.’

‘It’s a date.’ Trevor led the way.

 

 

 

 


	2. Kismet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Trevor size each other up and fill each other in on their past

Trevor and Michael faced each other at the café table, both holding mugs of coffee, both wanting to speak but not knowing what to say. Trevor rocked rhythmically on the uneven, cheap chair legs. Michael took a gulp from his still too-hot drink for something to do; winced as it burned down his throat. Trevor knew he was making him uncomfortable with his intense stare and the sound of the chair legs knocking on the floor. Michael was finally uncomfortable and irritated enough to speak first and break the tension.

‘So what else do you do for a living?’

‘Nothin’,’ Trevor said, bluntly.

‘How’d you afford your plane?’

Trevor was keen to get to know Michael and he also wanted to impress him. He was tempted to lie and pretend the plane was his own and that he was the CEO of an international arms dealing operation but it wasn’t in his nature to bullshit people. So, he shrugged and said, ‘Guy I know lets me borrow it. Gonna keep doing what I do ‘til I can afford my own.’

Michael frowned; his expression turned to a curious one. ‘Where’d you learn to fly? You were pretty skilful up there…I ain’t gonna lie – I nearly shit my guts out when we dropped low over that lake, but you climbed back up perfectly,’ he chuckled into his coffee cup before drinking again.

‘Yeah, I was in the Air Force.’ Trevor said, quickly, then averted his eyes, sipped his coffee and stared out of the window into the night, making eye contact with his own scowling, transparent reflection.

‘ _Was_?’ questioned Michael. Trevor twitched slightly when Michael picked up on the past tense. ‘What happened? How old are you?’

‘Twenty.’

‘Ah, same age as me. You get injured?’

‘I ain’t ready to talk about that now, okay?’ Trevor huffed, frowning even harder than before. Sore point.

‘Okay, sorry, I was just askin’, calm down.’

‘It hurts okay?’ he blurted. ‘But  _yeah_. I was discharged.’ Trevor breathed sharply through his nostrils.

‘Shit, I ain’t gonna judge you,’ Michael shrugged, surprised by Trevor’s defensiveness. Trevor looked back at him, suddenly ready to open up. ‘I was fuckin’  _born_  to fly man. I’m  _made_  to do it. And this fuckin’ witch destroyed all my fuckin’ dreams.’ He slammed his coffee cup down and stared out onto the café concourse, furrowing his prominent brow. He was still holding the mug, hands so tight around it that his fingers were shaking. Michael saw the rage and bitterness in his eyes, whose amber-brown colour seemed to intensify the fiery temper which clearly simmered under his surface; but decided to press on with his questioning. He wasn’t about to let himself be intimidated by some angry dude. ‘You weren’t stationed at Fort Minot were you? I lived right close to there.’

‘Nah, I was about…20 miles north of he-’

‘Say that again?’ Michael interrupted with narrowed eyes.

‘What?’

‘About. Say about.’

‘What? No!’

‘Go on, say it.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘You’re a canuck,  _eh_!’

‘NO!’ snapped Trevor. ‘Well…yeah. But…no! Trevor was pretty sure he passed for an American and he wasn’t prepared to accept the notion that Canadians said things in that ridiculously exaggerated way these yanks claimed. But Michael had noticed it, the clipped vowel, the subtle Canadian raising. He almost physically felt his street credit dissolving. No one cool hailed from small-town Alberta.

‘Fuck. I moved about a lot; my father, or at least the man I  _knew_  to be my father moved about a lot for work, so I’ve lived in and out of America and Canada. Then when he left…well, whoever my mother was  _fucking_  that season, we lived with him. East, west, from B.C to Ontario, mostly in shitty boondocks and trailer parks along the border.’

‘Ah, trailer parks. I know them well,’ grinned Michael and Trevor was relieved. Michael presented himself cool as fuck, but he was trailer trash just like Trevor himself had sometimes been, therefore he wasn’t in a position to judge him. He continued, ‘Where were you born?’

‘Edmonton – but I grew up in Calgary.’

Michael nodded and took a swig of his coffee, before asking; ‘So you learned to fly in the Royal Canadian Air Force, then what?’

Trevor shook his head. ‘I learned to fly before enlisting. I was expelled from school in the tenth grade for violence…I assaulted my hockey coach.’ He couldn’t resist a grin at the memory. ‘Did most of my summer in a youth correctional facility, sat my Grade 10 exams inside. I get released; my mother won’t let me back. Soooo, I spend the night sleeping in an old hangar, in an airstrip near home. Anyway, I wake up and the owner asks what I’m doin’ there. I tell him about my situation and he says I can stay but only if I help him clean his planes, help fix them up and that, so I learn a bit of mechanics. Then one day he asks if I want to try taxiing a plane for him and then after a while, he let me fly and I was naturally good at it.’

‘They let you in the Air Force with a criminal record?’

‘Guy put in a good word with someone he knew, got myself a pardon from the government; they thought military discipline would straighten me out, y’know?’

‘And because you’d already flown planes?’

‘Yup, and I’d been good inside, I was quite the model prisoner!’ said Trevor said in an affected, posh way. ‘Even gave me a character reference. I passed all the aptitude and medical tests with flying colours – they even got me learning French.’

‘So you could fly to Quebec and seduce French-speaking girls?’

‘Came in handy. They fuckin’ loved it.  _So did the boys_ …’

‘Ohh, really?!’

‘Haaaaa, just kiddin’!’ Trevor wasn’t kidding.

‘Then what?’

‘Did a few months in here in Manitoba; had the advantage over the other guys because I’d flown before, then I did another six months training in Moose Jaw. They said I was gifted; for Stage Three, they put me forward for multi engines.’

‘You can fly different types of planes?’

‘It means I can also fly helicopters! So, from small choppers to chinooks – had a good career ahead of me.’ Trevor still felt so proud of this fact, yet so broken-hearted about his discharge. He had a sudden intrusive suicidal thought, so changed the subject – he wanted to know more about Michael. ‘ _So,_ come on, if you’ve fallen into weapons and drug trafficking, you’re a fuck-up like me, so let’s hear it, sugar,’ he joked. Michael winced and looked around to make sure no one had heard him reveal their criminal occupation and Trevor laughed at him. Discretion wasn’t his best forte.

‘Alright, I was an angry kid; a teacher suggested I get into sports to release that shit, so I took up American Football. I was good at it, I was making a name for myself locally, but…I was seen as being too aggressive. Then I got injured, got lazy with my physio; they forced me to quit.’

Trevor had guessed that Michael been into sport at some point. He still looked physically fit – he could tell by the muscle tone in his arms and the width of his shoulders, but he also looked like he’d let himself go slightly. He was pretty stocky; a little fat, but strong underneath. Michael noticed Trevor staring at his arms and was relieved when the waiter brought their breakfast to the table and broke his line of vision. Michael carried on talking: ‘I took my anger out on society; robbed people, did time twice; got out this year, in fact. I guess that’s how you turn out when you’re from a Midwestern trailer park and you get beaten up by your alcoholic dad every fucking day. You don’t learn how to react appropriately. You don’t fit in, you turn to crime...’

‘You got beaten by your dad too?’

‘Uh-huh. He disappeared when I got too big to put a beat down on. Mom told me he got hit by a train, but then I heard he’d joined the navy. I lost track of all the stories I was told. So fuck knows.’ Michael started eating.

‘Mine was a cunt and I hope he’s dead.’ Trevor volunteered this information without prompt, delivered as a growl through gritted teeth. Michael looked up, eyebrows raised, eyes connected with Trevor’s. They were the same, then. Abusive father, kicked out of a promising career and done time as teens: Michael was someone who would understand Trevor – the type of friend he’d been looking for all his life. Their parallels had led them to disposing of a body together and if Trevor was romantically inclined towards Michael, he’d have called it kismet, but it was too soon to run the risk of sounding ever so slightly homosexual. He’d already revealed enough about seducing French-Canadian boys on an excursion to Quebec.

On their walk back to the hangar, Trevor was reluctant to fly Michael back and wanted to offer him a place to stay, but he himself lived two hours to the west in Estevan, Saskatchewan. He usually rough slept in hangars or the plane if he was doing illegal night trafficking. He couldn’t have Michael knowing he was still living with his mother though – fuck that.  When they arrived back at the airstrip, he opened the plane to find that despite their cleaning efforts, even the cockpit still stank of burned flesh and charred hair. He could tell by Michael’s scrunched face that he could smell it too. They had no choice but to put up with it.

They were silent until halfway through their 35-mile journey back to the American airstrip when Michael turned to Trevor. ‘So, did you learn how to use a gun in the Air Force?’

‘I can handle a gun, yeah,’ Trevor said confidently.

‘I’m a fantastic shot,’ said Michael. ‘My grandpa taught me. I used to practice at a shooting range too.’

‘How about we go shootin’ sometime?’ Trevor worried it sounded like he was asking him on some kind of crime date.

‘You mean hunting? You good at that?’

‘Killed a few animals in my time,’ Trevor said, entirely truthfully, though it wasn’t necessarily with a hunting rifle. He was up for any adventure with Michael though.

 ‘Alright, how ‘bout you take me hunting and I take  _you_  to a range?’ Michael suggested. ‘Then we can see who’s the best marksman. Your country or mine, buddy?’

Trevor grinned. ‘ _Please_ , take me away from my fuckin’ wasteland.’

‘You think  _you_  live in a wasteland? I live in Minot. You should come down. I’m bored out of my fucking mind there.’

_Good_ , thought Trevor. Michael must be as lonely as he was; maybe they could fuck shit up together, raise merry fucking hell.


End file.
